


Get Rid of It

by Highlander_II



Series: None Goes His Way Alone [91]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Community: 100_situations, F/M, tree - Freeform, writer's choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-12
Updated: 2009-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highlander_II/pseuds/Highlander_II
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stacy wants a Christmas tree. Pre-S1; Post-Infarction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Rid of It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=100_situations)[100_situations](http://www.livejournal.com/users/100_situations/), based on the table in [this post](http://highlander-ii.dreamwidth.org/299704.html#cutid1).
> 
>  
> 
> I've maintained canon events through Season 5 with one exception – House never started seeing 'dead people' and did not end up in the asylum. That's where the divergence occurs and the 'AU timeline' begins.
> 
>  
> 
> All of these 100 ficlets were written starting in May of 2009 and finishing by June/July of that same year.

She waited for Greg to get up and make his way to the kitchen before she brought it up. It wasn't new. In fact, they'd done it every year they'd been together. She was hoping this year would be the same.

Greg poured his coffee, then made his way slowly to the couch. She waited until he put down his cup of coffee. "Greg, I want to get a tree this weekend."

The look on his face almost made her shrink into the kitchen. "What the fuck do I want with a tree?" he growled, his hands clenched around his thigh.

"It's Christmas," she answered simply.

"You're an atheist," he gritted back.

"I like Christmas," she countered.

"I don't," he snapped in a way that indicated he was done with the conversation.

She huffed. "Fine. I'll ask James to go with me." It was a simple solution and James Wilson was the least threatening person she could think of to go with her.

He growled something she couldn't understand. "No. No trees. No Christmas. No gifts. Nothing. I don't want it here. What the hell do I have to celebrate?"

That last bit made her so angry she could hit something. Rather than start another argument, she grabbed her coat and her keys, then pulled the front door open. "Don't be late for work, Greg," she growled over her shoulder, then left the apartment.

* * * * *

When he got back from work, he could immediately tell something was different. When he entered the apartment, his fears were right there beside his piano. A seven-foot evergreen coated in lights and tinsel and round baubles of ornaments. And Wilson was helping Stacy put a star a top of the monstrosity.

He said nothing. Not a word to Wilson or Stacy. Not a word about the damned tree. Nothing. He limped down the hall to his room and closed the door.

Bent over his wounded thigh, he gritted his teeth, clutched his hands around his leg and tried not to scream from the pain. This had only been his third full day back at work and the Vicodin wasn't doing as much good as he'd expected.

He was in an excruciating amount of pain. He wanted to curl up into a ball and die. And his living room was coated in a sheen of Christmas cheer that he didn't want anything to do with. If anyone had a reason to scream, it was him.

He didn't look up when Stacy opened the door. Who else would it be? Wilson only comes near his bedroom when he needs to be put to bed after a long night of drinking. He didn't want either of them here at the moment, but he was in too much pain to do anything about it.

"Greg? What's wrong?" she asked, staying at the door.

He didn't answer. If he opened his mouth, he knew he'd scream. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then blinked up at Stacy.

She gasped, then panicked. House watched her head turn over her shoulder, then heard the piercing cry as she called to Wilson.

Wilson's stylish leather shoes lightly clicked on the hardwood as he ran down the hall. "What?" he panted moments before he saw the scene in the bedroom. "House? What is it? How bad is the pain?" he asked, sliding himself into a kneeling position beside House and the bed.

"Eleven," House ground out over the strain in his throat. He wasn't sure if it was really 'eleven', but it was worse than anything since the first signs of muscle death.

Wilson scrambled out of the room, then returned less than a minute later with a small box. He opened the box to reveal a syringe and a vial of liquid. "I'd tell you this will pinch a little but you probably won't notice." Wilson prepared, then administered the injection.

House felt the narcotic flow into his system and start relieving the pain almost immediately. He didn't care that part of the relief was only psychological.

He laid himself back on the bed and growled, "Now get rid of that damned tree."


End file.
